What a tangled web we weave
by HelveticaBrown
Summary: To ensure the happiness of her son, Regina walked away from Storybrooke and her revenge, leaving the curse intact. But sometimes fate has a way of catching up, no matter how far or fast you run. Pre-season-one canon divergence. (Previously posted on AO3)


_A/N: I wrote this for the Swan Queen Big Bang earlier this year. It's been up on AO3 for ages and thought I might as well bring it over here for anyone who doesn't read at AO3._

* * *

 _ **Part I: Now leaving Storybrooke**_

Regina stared at the ceiling trying to focus on the whir of the ceiling fan, the thudding bass from the club across the street, anything but the soft snores and deep, even breaths coming from the woman sleeping next to her. It had taken her months to get used to falling asleep to the sounds of the city at night. The dull roar of traffic. The crescendo-decrescendo and pitch change of sirens approaching and receding, heralding an emergency somewhere. The half-heard conversations of neighbouring apartments and of drunken students walking beneath her window. After the stillness and quiet of Storybrooke, the sound of people living their lives, messy and chaotic, had been jarring. But now, she clung to those sounds as a lifeline, a way to distance herself from the looming devastation she'd unleashed upon herself. Because as it turned out, Fate had brought trouble to her doorstep, but she'd been the one to invite it in and take it to bed.

Sometimes the sense that she had unfinished business gnawed at her. Her link to the curse remained, like a rubber band stretched out, pulled taut over the distance. It was why they'd only made it as far as Boston. She'd hoped to leave Storybrooke far behind to remove the temptation to ever return, but the further away they travelled, the greater the hum and vibration of the curse in her head, until it grew into a physical pain. So Boston it had been. Sometimes she felt the link drawing her back, and there were occasional nights that she dreamed of returning to torment her enemies, wanting nothing more than to see Snow White suffering again. But those nights came less and less often with time.

Clinging to a revenge that had long since grown stale eventually became less important than securing the happiness of her son. Henry loved her and trusted her completely, but back in Storybrooke, there were moments when she sensed that as he grew older, she alone would never be enough for him. Not as long they were living in a town of clockwork people, at least. The first flicker of concern eventuated when he was six and he asked her when Ashley would have her baby. She should have recognised then that they couldn't continue living this way. But she was stubborn and constructed an ever more elaborate series of lies to explain why time never seemed to move. He continued to look at her with trust, as she lied to him over and over again.

By the time Henry was eight, the questioning had become more frequent and his unhappiness had become more obvious. It was the day he came home from school miserable over spending recess and lunch alone for months that she'd finally realised that if she loved her son, she couldn't spend any more time pretending that things would magically fix themselves. He was becoming progressively more isolated and withdrawn as the friends he'd made when he was five had failed to grow up alongside him. He'd looked at her, eyes brimming with confusion as he finally revealed after much questioning what was bothering him.

"Mom, I don't understand. They just never seem to change, but I do. James and Patrick still don't know how to read or even write their own names and they never grow taller. Mom, what's wrong with me?"

She'd felt the familiar sting of tears pricking at her eyes, and she'd held him tightly to her as she whispered, "Nothing is wrong with you, my sweet little prince. You are perfect." It was then that she finally realised that the castle walls she'd built to keep her little prince safe from the world were crumbling, and when he saw what lay beyond them, he'd never forgive her. She resolved to do whatever it took to make him happy.

That weekend she'd stashed the twentieth birdhouse he'd built in the garage. Ten others he'd brought home that year dotted the shelves. The rest were perched in trees around the house, mostly unused; Storybrooke was in the midst of an avian property bubble fuelled by the time-loop and Mary Margaret Blanchard's endless enthusiasm for birds. She'd sat there in the garage, turning the birdhouse about in her hands, wondering how she ever thought this could have worked. She'd smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes, a mix of pride and regret making her chest ache; Henry had become quite good at constructing the little houses, and she wondered just how bored he had grown doing this over and over. So she'd packed as many of their belongings as she could fit in the Mercedes, and they'd left Storybrooke behind.

* * *

Those first months in Boston had been difficult. She had built significant financial resources for herself into the curse, but leaving Storybrooke brought an end to the regular deposits into her bank account as the Mayor. She quickly realised that she would need to find a way to support herself and her son, a task that proved more challenging than she'd expected. The simple fact was, 26 years as the Mayor of a town that nobody had heard of was not exactly the ideal foothold to establish herself in the corporate workforce of the real world. She had no references and no experience that she could articulate in a way that didn't sound completely insane. She'd sat in waiting rooms with men and women who had been alive for less time than she had run an entire town for, and watched them be chosen ahead of her. The roles she applied for became progressively less ambitious, but to no avail. She had ruled an entire realm, but apparently she wasn't qualified enough to answer phones or take lunch orders.

It was after yet another day of rejections that she walked into a café. The café was small, with only a few seats, none of which were occupied. The only person in the café was the barista, a scruffy guy with brown hair that was too long, and something growing on his face that might eventually become a beard if he fed and watered it appropriately. The barista looked up from where he was busy playing with the espresso machine and grinned. She frowned at him, in no mood for small talk with strangers, ordered a coffee and a pastry and sat down to ponder her options. She wasn't quite ready to accept her latest failure and return home to the sparsely-decorated, impersonal apartment that she and Henry lived in. She stared at her résumé, racking her brains for a way to make it desirable to potential employers.

The barista – Mark, according to his nametag – came over to her table after a few minutes to check how she was enjoying her order. "How's the coffee?"

"Excellent." It really was. After years of drinking the awful dreck that Granny served, this was like a tiny miracle in a cup.

"How's the pastry?"

"Your butter needs to be colder." Unlike the coffee, she'd been quite unimpressed and tact had never been her strong suit.

He regarded her sceptically, folding his arms. "Oh, yeah? What would you know about that?"

"Clearly more than you do," she responded, in a tone that was intended to scare him off, so that she could continue brooding in peace. She gave him a look, the kind that had brought knights to their knees before her, but he took it as an invitation to sit down opposite her and continue the conversation. There was definitely something wrong with him.

He grinned at her and said, "You know, you're probably right." He peered across the table, focusing in on the pages in front of her. "You job hunting?"

"Yes." Her tone was clipped, not inviting further discussion.

"Not successfully, I'm guessing." He shrugged. "It's pretty tough out there." When she didn't respond, he continued, "But it's tough to find good help sometimes too. My business partner moved on a week ago, and I've been drowning since then."

She made a non-committal noise and continued to focus on the pages in front of her.

He dashed over to the counter, and she thought she'd finally gotten rid of him, but he came back with a muffin on a plate. "Here, try this and tell me what you think."

"I'm not in the habit of overdosing on sugar." Particularly not when the sugar in question was likely to have been so poorly utilised.

"No, seriously, I need an honest opinion and you seem like you'll give it to me."

Mark sat down again, and Regina wondered what she was going to have to do to get rid of him. Moments like these made her miss her magic; she could have turned him into a beetle, or sent him to another continent, or any number of things really. Although, that would have been a terrible waste of a good barista. Perhaps she could curse him to never leave his espresso machine. He continued to look at her expectantly; eventually, she rolled her eyes and broke off a piece of the muffin, chewing it contemplatively.

Mark watched her intently as she sampled it, impatiently prompting her when she didn't say anything immediately. "Well?"

"Terrible. Tough. The glutens are overworked because it was mixed far too long." She sighed. This day was getting progressively worse. "Please tell me that you're not going to force me to eat anymore substandard baked goods, because if I'm going to have to spend an hour on the treadmill tonight, it had better be worth it."

"No, I won't inflict anything else on you." He frowned, resting his chin in his hands and regarded her seriously. "You know, you just confirmed what I suspected. Kate was the pastry whiz, and she's left me with her recipes and absolutely no idea how to use them. I'm going to lose business if I keep serving up this crap."

Regina worked her tongue around her mouth, trying to remove the remnants of the awful muffin. "I could do with another coffee to get rid of the memory of that atrocity that you just made me eat."

"Sure thing." He gestured at the espresso machine. "You ever used one of those before?"

She shook her head. "Only a home machine."

"Well, follow me. It's going to be quiet here for the next half-hour, so today's the day we fix that gap in your education." He got up and walked back to the counter, waving Regina over when she didn't immediately follow. "Come on."

Regina was becoming steadily more uncomfortable as this encounter proceeded. This was the first time since she'd moved to Boston – and perhaps for some time before – that she'd had any kind of meaningful interaction with someone other than Henry. The few job interviews she'd landed had been impersonal, the interactions cursory and stilted, bordering on dismissive. She was unused to being the singular focus of someone's interest, and Mark was not the sort of person who would have ordinarily attracted her attention.

"I think you're confused about the way this works. You make the coffee, I buy it. We'd be violating one of the fundamental laws of the universe if I had to make my own coffee." She tried yet again to deflect his attention with sarcasm, but he laughed.

"Listen, I'm kind of offering you a trial for a job. I mean, you might scare the customers away with that scowl, but I'm pretty sure they're likely to be scared away anyway if I keep serving those things you rightfully referred to as an atrocity."

There was surely some irony in landing a job so effortlessly, when she'd struggled for so long. It wasn't what she'd been looking for, but she'd reached a point where she could no longer afford to be fussy. Her baking immediately won the approval of Mark and his customer base, and she gradually introduced new items to the menu. And, as it turned out, her aptitude for potion-making set her in good stead for making espresso. She quickly came to understand the delicate balance of tamp and dose and grind, of time and temperature, and Mark soon trusted her to work without oversight.

She also discovered that Mark's impulsivity extended beyond hiring strangers who criticised his baking skills. A month after Regina started working at Bean Zone, Mark announced his intention to follow the man he'd been dating for the past three weeks to Europe, indefinitely. He offered to sell the business to Regina and she accepted, having come to realise that although the mundane, quotidian ritual of baking and brewing and serving was not enough to make her happy, it was, at the very least, comforting in its simplicity.

No, it wasn't enough to satisfy her, but it was a job, and Henry was happy here, more happy than she'd ever seen him in Storybrooke. He brought friends home from school, nagged her to let him join the soccer team, and was excited about schoolwork in a way that he had never been back there. As frustrating as other aspects of her life were, at least this reassured her that she'd made the right decision. And the rest of it? Well as long as her little prince was smiling, the rest of it didn't matter.

She traded in power suits for t-shirts, jeans, plaid shirts, a leather apron, and when she looked in the mirror, she felt entirely unlike herself. Short, perfectly-styled hair had grown longer, and now spent most of its time in a messy bun or ponytail. Soft hands had become calloused, and perfectly manicured nails were now kept painfully short. Her make-up was softer, a mostly perfunctory effort, and when she looked in the mirror, she couldn't quite see the Mayor or the Evil Queen in the features reflected back at her. Here, now, she was just Regina, mother of Henry, baker, barista, another face in the crowd in a big city.

* * *

 ** _Part II: Making Trouble's Acquaintance_**

Regina had been running the café for six months when the woman she would later learn was Emma Swan first walked through her door. The lunch rush had just finished, and Regina was tidying her workspace in anticipation of the mid-afternoon crowd. Regina didn't pay her much attention initially, quickly taking in the details of blonde hair pulled into a messy ponytail, leather jacket, jeans, sunglasses and a camera bag and writing her off as a tourist. Regina expected her to stay for a few minutes, perhaps taking a break from walking around, planning her next stop, or getting her bearings again in an unfamiliar city. She was surprised when the woman lingered, taking a table by the window, and when she was still there an hour later, Regina started to take a little more notice.

There was something about the woman that piqued her interest, perhaps even a poorly-defined sense of recognition that Regina couldn't quite place. She casually observed her from her position behind the counter, searching for a clue as to what it was about her that was gnawing at her brain.

Shortly after sitting down, the woman had pulled out a notebook, and she periodically scribbled in it. Her attention was mostly focused on the street outside, and at times, she played with her camera in a way that Regina suspected meant she was surreptitiously taking photographs. It was entirely strange, and Regina wanted to know what this woman was doing in her café. Occasionally, the woman glanced over in Regina's direction, and she recognised the character of that look, eyes lingering a moment too long, the way they skimmed down the neckline of her shirt.

She made her way over to the table under the pretext of checking if she wanted to order anything else, and tried to catch a glimpse of the notebook. She was disappointed when the woman closed the book as she approached the table. Later, when she handed the woman her second cup of coffee, Regina's hand lightly brushed against her arm. It should have been nothing more than a simple, accidental touch, but Regina felt her dormant magic flare up slightly in response to the contact.

It was the first time since she'd left Storybrooke that she'd felt the presence of her magic so clearly, and Regina wondered who this woman was that she'd provoke such a response. Although this was supposed to be a world without magic, Regina had gradually discovered that it existed. It made sense that it was there; for the curse to be able to persist in this world, there must have been some foundation. But magic here worked differently. It was weak, diffuse, unfocused, and she couldn't quite get to grips with it; it was like listening to a radio station that hadn't been tuned properly – half-heard snatches of songs or dialogue surrounded by static. When she reached for her own magic, it was like water slipping through her fingers. She'd spent so many nights straining for it, trying to gain control, before going to bed frustrated, her head pounding. But for a moment, she felt it firm up, become more tangible, and she thought that perhaps she could have lit a candle with that brief surge of energy.

She stared at the woman, shocked, before collecting herself. There had been no answering look of surprise, which meant that this woman was either the best poker player in the world, or she hadn't noticed the flare of magic. Regina _needed_ to find out who this woman was; she hadn't yet encountered anyone in this world who had manifested any signs of magical ability. The possibility of another magic user existing in this world, perhaps someone who had come across from another realm, worried her.

She tried to school her features to be friendly, inviting confidence, just a café owner trying to connect with her clientele. "I haven't seen you in here before. How are you liking the coffee?"

The woman took a sip of her coffee before responding. "It's great. Really. Sure beats anything else I've drunk in the last few weeks." She tilted her head in the direction of the counter. "I just might have to come back tomorrow and try some of those other pastries, too. The muffin was delicious."

Regina smiled widely, enjoying the compliment even if that wasn't the purpose of the conversation. "I'm so pleased to hear that." She extended a hand. "I'm Regina Mills. I own this café and I like to get to know my regular customers, what they like and dislike."

The woman accepted her offered hand, the resulting handshake lingering a little too long and bordering on a caress. Regina felt a small sense of satisfaction at the almost imperceptible hitch in the other woman's breathing. She'd read those looks correctly and that was something she could use, a vulnerability that she instinctively knew how to exploit. And the contact had given her the opportunity to confirm that there was _something_ about this woman that spoke to her magic. There hadn't been another jolt like she'd initially experienced, but there had been a gentle hum, a vibration that was there the entire time they were in contact.

"I'm Emma. And unfortunately, I won't have the chance to become a regular. I'm just in town for a few days."

Those eyes – vivid green, up close – were tracing Regina's features again in a way that made her feel warm, slightly edgy. And the way she'd said _unfortunately,_ well Regina was certain that she was not mistaking the intent behind those words. Regina held her gaze. "That's a pity." And it really was, because there was no reason why a fact-finding mission like this couldn't involve just a hint of pleasure. "Are you here on holidays?"

Emma gave her a non-committal smile. "Something like that."

Regina was distracted by the first of her regular afternoon customers walking in, and by the time the rush was over, Emma had gone.

* * *

Emma returned two days later. Regina had felt strangely unsettled for much of the previous day, and she realised when Emma finally walked in, exactly what the source of that irritation had been. Emma hadn't actually promised to return the next day, but somehow, Regina had been expecting it, and had found herself looking up every time a customer came through the door. She had grown progressively more irritated with each customer who wasn't Emma, building to a point where she'd actually terrified the boy who'd shown up an hour late with her bean delivery. She attributed her irritability to impatience; she needed to know more about this woman. About who she was, what she was doing in the café, and why her presence had made Regina's magic respond in the way it had.

As she had during her previous visit, in between taking notes and fiddling with her camera, Emma had frankly observed Regina, her gaze warm, appraising. Every look made Regina more certain that there was an opening that she could use, and she intended to make the most of that advantage. Once again, Emma lingered in the café, and Regina took every opportunity to interact with her, to draw her in.

Regina knew how this dance went, knew all of the steps without even thinking. Leaning forward, third button strategically undone, just enough skin exposed to leave her wondering. The touch of a hand, thumb lightly brushing across skin. Her hair flipping back over her shoulders. A laugh, deep, throaty. The tilt of her head, just so. Teeth worrying at her lower lip. Just enough to get her on the hook.

She had marked out these steps so many times, watched so many respond just as Emma was now. She had developed a talent for this during her years with Leopold; she could convince the most unattractive, uninteresting target that she was helpless with need for them. It was a talent that had served her well, allowing her to exercise influence that she would otherwise have been denied.

She took a great deal more pleasure in this dance, though. Emma was attractive, interesting to Regina in a way that made it so much easier to feign attraction. And really, there was very little pretence required, because as her hand brushed against Emma's she felt a small frisson of desire, and as Emma's eyes traced the neckline of her shirt, Regina felt a hint of a blush rising.

Her tactics were bearing fruit. As Regina continued to go about her work, she noticed Emma's focus wavering more and more from the window and the notebook in front of her. Instead, she was fidgeting, chewing her pen distractedly, squirming in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs. Her eyes were more frequently turned in Regina's direction, and Regina allowed herself a secret smile at the evidence that her gambit was proving to be successful. Emma was definitely on the hook. Now Regina just needed to reel her in.

The lunch rush had just ended, and Regina took that opportunity to progress her strategy. She carefully selected an apple turnover, a most beautiful specimen with crisp, golden pastry, heated it up and arranged it on a plate with a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Temptation took many forms, and from the little she had observed of Emma, she suspected that she would be entirely susceptible to this mode of seduction.

She placed the plate on the table, and Emma looked up at her, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. "Oh, hey there. What's this? I didn't order anything else."

Regina smiled, holding eye contact with Emma for just a beat too long. "I've been playing with my apple turnover recipe, and I made a few too many. I'd hate to see them go to waste."

"Well, I'm definitely not one to turn down free food, particularly when it looks like this."

"I'm very fond of apples; some of my best work has been done with them." She watched Emma intently, waiting for a sign that she recognised Regina, knew more than she was letting on. Her reputation had travelled throughout the Enchanted Forest; she knew that citizens of kingdoms far from her own had heard the tales of her deeds. If Emma was one of them, if Emma knew who she was, then that should get some sort of reaction.

"I could definitely believe that," Emma said through a mouthful of apple turnover. "This is delicious." There was nothing; not even the slightest hesitation.

Regina decided to try a different tack, a more direct approach. "So what are you doing in Boston? There are far more interesting sights in this city than the inside of my café and the view out of the window."

Emma shrugged. "You know. A little bit of business, a little bit of pleasure." That last bit was accompanied by another one of those looks she'd been giving Regina all day. She continued, "I've found that this little corner of the city holds a certain appeal."

"Where are you visiting from?"

"New York."

"Did you grow up there?"

Emma shook her head. "I kind of grew up all over the place."

Emma made short work of the turnover, and Regina considered her next move. It was frustrating; for the first time in many years, the tools at her disposal were limited. She had no magic, no power and no real control of the situation. She couldn't threaten or coerce and she couldn't command a subordinate to investigate the woman. Instead, the situation required caution, subtlety, delicacy. All she had was her wits and she had to use those somehow to trap Emma into exposing herself.

She wondered how much she should reveal and decided that she needed to take a risk in the hope of garnering a reaction, to help her assess whether Emma really did offer any kind of threat. She watched Emma closely, looking for a twitch, a blink, anything that might suggest that she understood the subtext behind Regina's words.

"I'm from a small town called Storybrooke. Time moves very slowly there; it's almost like another world." Again, there was no reaction, beyond simple, polite curiosity. She had to conclude the Emma didn't know who she was, but there was still the question of why her magic had responded. And, there was still a strange, niggling sense of familiarity that she couldn't explain.

* * *

It was only after the third time Emma came in that Regina realised what that strange sense of recognition had sprung from. Henry had been in the store all day due to a scheduled pupil-free day at school, and he'd already made it through half a dozen comic books. Currently, he was in the process of creating patterns on the table with grains of sugar, a clear sign that boredom was setting in and mischief would soon follow.

As she was making a big order of take away coffees, she noticed Henry edging towards Emma and peering over her shoulder. She turned her attention back to the machine and bit back a curse as she realised that she'd let that shot run too long and she'd need to make it again. She finished making the coffees and when she looked up again, Henry was sitting across from Emma, chatting away to her.

She frowned and walked over to Emma's table, wiping it down and clearing away an empty plate. "Henry, please don't bother the customers."

Emma looked up at her. "No, don't worry about it. He's fine."

Henry continued to chat to her. "So are you a detective? Is that why you were writing down all those things about what people are doing?"

"Kind of. I find people who have run away."

Regina felt her stomach clench, fear flooding through her at Emma's words. Surely it wasn't possible that someone had sent Emma to track her down. No one from Storybrooke should have been aware enough to do that; her absence should have been a dim, niggling sense of curiosity or confusion at most, the curse filling in the spaces she had left behind.

Emma apparently didn't notice Regina's discomfort, because she continued talking to Henry. "I'm a bail bondsperson. That means I track down bad guys who are running away from going to court and make sure they show up."

Henry's eyes lit up. "Catching bad guys. That's so cool. You're kind of like Batman. Is that what you're here for now?"

Emma shook her head. "No, I'm actually doing some surveillance work, but I'm going home tomorrow. This job was a total wild-goose-chase."

"Oh?" Regina was interested to hear more about Emma had been doing here, and it seemed like she was in a sharing mood. Information she'd tried to subtly elicit was suddenly freely volunteered.

"Yeah. Someone hired me to check out the hot dog vendor across the street."

"Frank? Why would anyone want to look into him?" Regina was surprised. Frank was just about the most boring, normal person she could imagine. He came in occasionally, always ordered the same thing – a half-strength cappuccino with extra chocolate and a muffin – and talked about his cats and his mother.

Emma shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. I've been tracking him all week, and I've come up completely empty. He makes hot dogs, takes care of his elderly mother, volunteers at the soup kitchen three times a week and watches a lot of television. I don't normally do a lot of PI work, but someone paid me very generously to catalogue the minutiae of Frank's life and I haven't the faintest idea why."

Henry piped up again, apparently bored with the conversation now that it was going on over his head. "Mom, can I have a hot cocoa?"

"Just one. And you'd better make sure you eat all your vegetables tonight, dear," she said sternly, even though she couldn't help indulging him in little ways like this.

She made the cocoa and deposited it in front of Henry. As she walked back to the counter, she heard Emma say, "You like yours with cinnamon, too?"

She turned, and she could hear the blood rushing in her ears and feel acid rising in her throat as she took in the scene in front of her. Emma and Henry were smiling at each other and suddenly she could see what she hadn't seen before. The rest of the day passed in a blur. As soon as she reasonably could, Regina closed up and rushed home, tearing the small apartment apart until she found it. Henry watched her, puzzled, as she cursed and set the normally militaristically tidy apartment into a state of disarray.

She sat on the edge of the bed, the folder in her lap, staring at the pages Sidney had faxed to her all those years ago. The photograph was grainy and around ten years out of date, but it didn't take much imagination to see the resemblance. Her mystery customer was indeed Emma Swan, Henry's birth mother. The Saviour. Surely it couldn't be a coincidence that the Saviour had showed up in her café, but Regina was at a loss to understand what she was after, if it wasn't Henry.

She thought back over their interactions. Emma had taken an interest in her, but it had been in an abstract, unfocused way. The few questions she'd asked had been superficial, and there had been no indication that she was actively seeking information about Regina. Instead, Regina had had the distinct sense that the only thing Emma had been interested in doing was flirting with her, without any other agenda. And surely, her encounter with Henry had to be coincidental. There was no way she could have known that he would be in the café that day, and she'd shown no interest in him until he'd approached her.

Despite all of this, she felt sick, worried at the implications of the Saviour showing up now, at the possibility that somehow, she might be there to take Henry away. She made it to the bathroom just in time to empty the contents of her stomach into the toilet. The cold tiles hurt her knees as she knelt there retching over and over again, her thoughts and her stomach churning uncontrollably.

Henry was suddenly beside her, worry flooding his face. "Mom? Mom, what's wrong?"

She tried to pull herself together, summon a smile that would ease his worries, but she could barely manage a grimace. She swallowed, wincing at the harsh taste in her mouth. "It's alright, Henry. I'm fine."

The pitch of his voice crept upwards, her attempts at reassurance failing. "Mom, you don't look fine. What can I do?"

"Can you get me a glass of water, dear?"

She managed to rearrange herself to be sitting on the tiles by the time he returned, but she felt too weak to stand. There were spots of light dancing in her vision, the sure sign of an impending migraine, the kind that she usually only experienced after overextending herself while performing magic. It had been so long since she'd felt this physically shattered.

He sat down beside her, helping her with the glass of water and rubbing her back soothingly. And between the pain and the nausea, she wondered when her little prince had grown big enough to be the one looking after her. She felt an unaccountable sense of loss at the thought of him growing up and not needing her any more, of a time where he might not hug her as easily as he did now. He was nine years old, and still had a lot of growing up to do. But nine years had felt like no time at all, and when she looked at him, she still found herself thinking of the fractious little baby whose smile had stolen her heart. She'd thought that her ability to see the whole world in someone else's eyes had died in her alongside Daniel, but Henry had taught her that it was still alive.

The nausea had mostly settled, but her head was starting to pound. If she didn't make it to bed soon, she'd be spending the night on the bathroom floor.

"Henry, can you get the tablets in the white bottle on the second shelf of the medicine cabinet? And then, can you help me to my bedroom?"

He helped her up, and she tried not to lean on him too heavily, but she could feel him bracing against her, encouraging her to let him support more of her weight. They reached her bedroom, and she eased herself into bed, trying not to move too much.

"I'm sorry, Henry. You must be hungry and I haven't made anything for dinner yet."

"It's okay, Mom. I can take care of myself tonight."

He helped her with the covers, then stroked her hair back from her face and kissed her forehead, unconsciously mirroring the ritual that she had performed every night since he'd been small enough for her to carry everywhere. She smiled, a surge of pride and love welling up at her beautiful, perfect boy.

"Henry?"

"Yes, Mom?"

"Make sure you brush your teeth before bed. And don't eat too much ice cream."

He laughed softly as he closed the door. "Of course, Mom."

* * *

 ** _Part III: Inviting Trouble In_**

She didn't see Emma Swan again for three months, and in that time, her suspicion at her motives had dulled to little more than a faint concern. There had been moments when she'd thought about picking up the phone and calling Sidney, however she was loath to succumb to the temptation of interacting with Storybrooke, or any of its inhabitants, in any way. Nothing good would come of it.

She was eventually reassured by an apparent lack of flow-on effects from Emma's sudden appearance; no one had showed up looking for her or asking questions about herself or Henry. Life had been totally, utterly, comfortingly normal and mundane. But then, Emma Swan walked into her café again and sat down, and the uncertainty began to gnaw at Regina again.

She made her way over to the table Emma was occupying, noticing that Emma was watching her the whole time. "Here for work again?"

Emma smiled and shook her head. "I found myself craving your apple turnovers so much that I decided to move to Boston."

Regina raised an eyebrow. "Surely they had apple turnovers where you were living?"

"They did, but none quite as delicious as yours. Your husband or boyfriend is a very lucky man."

She was quite obviously fishing for information, and Regina wondered how much she should disclose. Was this a simple matter of attraction, or was there a threat there, a threat that she'd been too quick to dismiss when Emma Swan had previously showed up in her life.

"I find that I'm entirely uninterested in keeping a boyfriend or a husband about. They're entirely too much trouble." She noticed Emma's lips quirk upwards at that.

"What about a girlfriend?" There was no mistaking the heated look that Emma was giving her, and Regina found herself unable to tear her eyes away. Attraction it was, then. There was an intent there in Emma's behaviour that hadn't quite been present in the more casual flirtation that had characterised their previous interactions.

"No girlfriend at the moment." Her mouth suddenly felt dry and her stomach was doing somersaults in response to Emma's gaze. She tried to clamp down on it, tried to remind herself that she needed to find out what Emma's angle was. She focused herself; she could use this to her advantage, could make use of Emma's not-at-all-veiled interest to uncover her secrets.

The mid-afternoon rush had come and gone, and Emma had lingered through all of it. Regina had sensed Emma's gaze on her often, and it carried all the warmth and intimacy of an embrace. And she had found her eyes drawn to the other woman over and over again. She watched Emma lick milk foam off a teaspoon before closing her eyes in apparent pleasure as she drank her coffee. She watched Emma stretch and reveal a hint of a toned stomach, her tank top straining across the swell of her breasts. She watched Emma perform a series of inadvertent acts of seduction, and when she messed up her third order in a row, Regina realised that Emma Swan was far more of a distraction than she cared to admit.

Now there were only two customers in the store: Emma and a hipster who'd lingered for hours on just one cup of coffee, apparently deep in the process of crafting the next great American novel. Regina's unexpected popularity with Boston food bloggers had seen a steady stream of new customers just like this one over the past few months. They rarely stayed long, coming in a few times before moving on to the next hot venue. This one had been in a couple of times before, and he tended to sit for hours staring pensively into the middle distance, stroking his stubble and fidgeting with his scarf, before scribbling frantically in his ever-present Moleskine. Regina had rolled her eyes when she first saw him, but at least he hadn't complained about her lack of alternative brewing methods like some of the others had.

Right now, though, she wanted him out as soon as possible. Directing her statement at the hipster, she announced, "I'm closing up in ten minutes."

She made her way around the café, wiping tables, preparing to close. Regina lingered at Emma's table for a moment, trailing her fingers lightly across the skin of Emma's wrist as she reached for the empty cup on the table. As she did, she said, "I'm closing in ten minutes and I have to leave to pick my son up in an hour."

Recognition flickered in Emma's eyes at the unspoken message behind Regina's words. She held Regina's gaze without reply and there was something else in her look that made Regina tremble a little. The hipster finally got the message and closed his notebook, grumbling as he left. She flipped the sign on the door to 'closed', locked the door, and turned to find Emma still staring intently, watching her every move as she completed her closing ritual. She tilted her head, a subtle invitation, and Emma unfolded herself from her chair and followed her into the storeroom.

* * *

Later that night, she lay in bed thinking about Emma Swan. About a pair of green eyes that had peered up at her, silently asking permission. Permission that she'd granted with a whispered _please_. About a head of blonde curls that she'd looked down at, nestled between her thighs, and then later tangled her fingers in roughly as her climax approached. There should have been a sense of victory at the sight of Emma Swan, her mortal enemy's child, the prophesied Saviour, kneeling before her. Rather, she was left with the inexplicable feeling that she'd lost this round. She hadn't planned it this way. She'd intended to have her begging, at her mercy, ready to spill any secrets she might hold. Instead, she'd been the one begging as Emma Swan had fucked her with her tongue, against the wall in the storeroom.

She'd slid down the wall, boneless, her legs turned to jelly in the aftermath of her pleasure. Emma had casually wiped her mouth with the back of her hand before leaning down to kiss her, and Regina had felt the flame of her arousal lighted anew. And then there had been fingers curving up inside her and a thumb circling her clit in maddening, wonderful patterns.

They hadn't spoken throughout the encounter, beyond _pleases_ and _yeses_ and _is that what you needs?_ And as she sat leaning against the wall, breathless and sated, her jeans tangled around one ankle, Emma had stood up and moved to leave, her clothes mostly intact. But she couldn't let Emma Swan just walk away like this, leaving her indebted and with no sense of control. She couldn't let Emma Swan walk away without touching her, tasting her.

She'd said, "Wait. What about you? I haven't touched you."

Emma had paused and looked at her watch. "You need to pick up your son."

The ease with which Emma could apparently check out of this encounter had infuriated Regina. That casual glance at her watch, the sense of time that Regina herself had lost track of. She couldn't let it go unpunished. She'd picked herself up off the floor, struggling with her jeans until they sat loose and unfastened on her hips, before moving to block Emma's exit. She'd summoned physical strength she rarely used, pushing Emma back against the wall, tearing at her clothes, urgent, desperate. There had been a flash of surprise in those green eyes, which had quickly been replaced with hunger. And then, Emma had cried out at the sensation of lips and teeth and tongue at her throat, her shoulder, the curve of her breast, through her bra.

Regina had struggled against too-tight denim, eventually managing to slide her hand inside panties that were soaked. She'd felt a small triumph at this, at this tangible evidence that Emma was not unmoved by her, and there had been satisfaction as she heard Emma draw a shuddering breath as she plunged fingers into warmth and wetness. She'd watched intently as Emma had bitten her lip, neck muscles straining, head thrown back, the skin of her chest and neck flushed. And as Emma came, bucking against her hand, she should have felt a sense of power restored. But she didn't. She'd wanted this too much, enjoyed it too much, and for all the wrong reasons.

Lying there now, the memory of Emma Swan haunted her. Thirty minutes in a scalding shower had not erased the scent of her; it still clung to her fingers. It had not erased the way that her body had responded to Emma's touch, and right now there was a throb between her legs that she couldn't quiet. Her body still felt electrified by the memory of pleasure, like the aftershocks of an earthquake, and the feel of sheets against her bare legs and the brush of silk pyjamas against still-sensitive nipples was almost too much.

* * *

Sexual desire had been present from the very first moment, but sometimes Emma would look at her with eyes that were hungry in a different way and it terrified Regina. Tonight was one of those times; she'd opened the door to let Emma in, and the intensity of the gaze meeting hers had made her feel hot and cold all at the same time. She should have closed the door, locked it and never opened it again for Emma Swan, but she'd hesitated, thrown by that look and the feelings it stirred.

This was the first time that Emma had stayed, been allowed to stay. Regina should have kicked her out the moment she broke the unspoken compact between them and brought the personal into it, speaking of feelings, even if in only the most oblique way.

Emma stood in the doorway, looking at Regina, lips that were settled in a perpetual frown quirking upwards slightly. "It's my birthday today." Her voice had quavered a little as she continued. "This is the first one in years that I haven't spent alone."

She should have kicked her out, but she didn't. She tried to convince herself that that decision had nothing to do with emotion, and everything to do with the way that Emma's red dress clung to her body in all the right places. That it had everything to do with strong but slender arms on full display, arms that she has learned are strong enough to lift her clear off her feet. And that it certainly had nothing to do with the uncomfortable, nameless sensation that had swirled in her gut, a sensation that if she analysed it closely, might have been guilt. Guilt over the possibility that all of those lonely birthdays just might have been part of the collateral damage in a vendetta born long before Emma Swan was.

She tried to convince herself that it was a decision based on aesthetics and instinctual, animal attraction and scratching an itch that anyone could have scratched really, that Emma was just a convenient, available party to a meaningless sexual transaction. But if that was true, she would have closed the door in Emma's face and reached for the vibrator in her nightstand, or let Emma fuck her and then pushed her out the door as she had so many times before.

Instead, she'd pulled her inside and pushed her up against the closed door, kissing her hungrily, before taking her to bed and touching her more gently than she ever had before. Instead, as Emma had moved to get dressed, anticipating Regina's usual command, she'd pressed a kiss to her shoulder, and whispered to her to stay, just for tonight. Instead, she was lying next to Emma Swan, listening to her sleep, and trying not to think about how Emma Swan, the Saviour, was slowly becoming her undoing. Undoing her not with a single, merciful sword-stroke, but by a thousand, a million tiny cuts.

Emma was slowly leaving her imprint on Regina. Not in the livid purple marks on her collarbone, her breast, her inner thigh, but in more subtle ways. It was in the way that she would rub her cheek, catlike, against Regina's hip as she slid back up the bed. It was in the gentle, abstract patterns she would trace on Regina's abdomen or her back in the moments _after_ , just before Regina would tell her to get dressed and leave. Or in the soft looks she would give Regina when she thought she wasn't looking.

Regina could feel tears welling up. It was Emma Swan's birthday today, and that shouldn't mean anything, but it did. It was also the anniversary of the day she cast the curse and the day she killed her father, and lying here in a bed in Boston with a woman who was supposed to be her enemy, she felt weak, felt like a failure, could hear her mother's voice ringing in her ears. _Love is weakness_. This wasn't love, but it certainly made her feel weak. She should have shaken Emma awake and thrown her clothes at her, told her to get dressed and never come back. She should have burned all traces of Emma Swan, like the odd sock that had somehow wound up in her laundry hamper after a late night encounter, or the scarf that had somehow absorbed the subtle ghost of Emma's perfume. She should have burned it all and let the marks fade and disappear until Emma was gone, exorcised from her life.

Instead, she turned to face the wall and muffled her sobs in her pillow, trying not to disturb the woman lying beside her. But it seemed that she was a light sleeper, another thing Regina filed away with the list she had tried to pretend she wasn't keeping, the list of things she was slowly learning about Emma Swan.

She has learned that Emma likes grilled cheese, and cocoa with cinnamon, just like Henry, just like Snow. That she eats quickly, too quickly; a remnant of her time in the foster system, Emma had once confided in response to Regina's pointed remark. She has learned that Emma's body is both strong and soft, a stark contrast of muscles and womanly curves and that there are faded white lines on her hips and abdomen that are a constant reminder of the life that she created, now sleeping two walls away. She has learned that Emma likes to be fucked with three fingers, instead of the two that she herself prefers, and that she turns to putty in Regina's hands when she kisses her lower back.

In that moment, she learned that Emma was a light sleeper, because suddenly, there was an arm slung around her, and a soft, sleepy voice whispering in her ear that _she'd be okay,_ and a hand rubbing soothing patterns on her back. And Regina wanted to push her away, wanted to tell her that she'd broken the terms of this agreement. But she didn't. She couldn't quite find the strength to do so, because no one had touched her quite like that in as long as she could remember, and she hadn't realised that she missed it, until she did.

There were moments with Emma Swan, moments like this one, that she found herself remembering a girl long dead who loved horses and the wind in her hair and the touch of a boy with chapped lips and calloused hands and gentle eyes. But Emma Swan wasn't Daniel. Daniel had looked at her with wide, guileless eyes, like the purpose of the universe had been fulfilled when she came into existence. Daniel had been hope and optimism, openness and freedom, unconstrained love and wonderment. Emma was none of those things. Emma had the stance of a pugilist, wary, guarded, forever anticipating the blows that might rain down on her. She had the eyes of a cynic, of someone who had been hurt too many times and struggled to believe. And when Regina looked at her, it was like looking into a mirror, fists raised, ready to punch and counter. But there were moments like these, moments so rare, when those defences melted away, when both their fists were lowered, and Regina wondered if maybe that girl was not dead, but sleeping, waiting for the right person to kiss her awake again.

One night turned into two turned into several turned into many.

Some nights, Emma would stay over, tiptoeing in after Henry went to bed and staying until a moment just before dawn, creeping out with the first notes of birdsong. And they'd fuck with quiet urgency, and sometimes there would be words on the tip of Regina's tongue, but they'd come out garbled and wrong. She'd say things like _that was just adequate_ , or _why did you change your tempo_ , or _are you always this clumsy_. And Emma would look wounded for a moment, and it would buy Regina just enough time to regain her composure, to pretend that Emma didn't hold this power over her. But then Emma's face would close over, harden, and her hands would be like iron and her mouth would be molten and she'd turn from virtuoso into brute. And Regina hated her a little, and hated herself more, because she knew that Emma knew exactly what she wanted and was giving it to her.

And some nights, they wouldn't fuck. Sometimes, at the end of long days of standing and lifting stock, of pulling shots she would be left wincing at the spasms of pain in her back, a cruel reminder of the punishments her mother had inflicted on her as a child. And somehow, Emma Swan had learned _her_ well enough to know when a gasp was one of pleasure or one of pain, even when she was trying to hide it. And those hands that had coaxed so many moans and gasps and sighs of pleasure from her would change their course and soothe instead. And those were the hardest nights of all, because it was so much harder to pretend when it stopped being about fucking and started being about something that Regina didn't want to name.

* * *

 ** _Part IV: A postcard is a terrible thing_**

Regina had come to the conclusion that Emma posed no threat to herself or Henry, at least in the way that she'd initially expected. On the rare occasions when Emma and Henry crossed paths, there was no light of recognition in Emma's eyes, no sense of yearning, no indication of intent. Emma treated Henry with detached friendliness and made no move to seek out anything more. She still worried sometimes about what would happen if Emma somehow realised the truth about Henry, but the possibility seemed so remote that Regina was able to talk herself into pushing that thought to one side for the moment.

She was still no closer to understanding the source of Emma's magic, or why her own responded the way that it did, but her interest in that subject had faded. The reality was that neither of them seemed to have enough magic between them to do much more than light a candle. And that one moment when they'd first met had seemed to be a fluke.

She smiled distractedly at the customer in front of her – August, she'd leaned his name was after he'd been coming in for a few weeks – and handed him the takeaway coffee he'd ordered. He usually spent a couple of hours in the café, writing in his Moleskine, but today he'd come in looking harried, and his limp had been more pronounced than she remembered.

He took the cup from her and turned to go, before pausing and looking back at her. "You know, I've been thinking for a while that I know you from somewhere."

Regina shook her head. "I'm sure I'd remember."

He shrugged and walked towards the door, stopping on the threshold and turning back to look at her. "I think we have a mutual friend. Gold sends his regards."

She was in the middle of making the next coffee order when he spoke, and she dropped the jug of milk she was frothing, cursing as she scalded her arm on the steam wand. She raced out onto the street, but by the time she got there, he'd been swallowed by the crowd. It seemed her past had finally caught up with her, and her stomach churned as she thought about what this meant for the quiet existence she had gradually come to enjoy.

She was clearing a table when she saw the postcard – _Greetings from Storybrooke_ – and she was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of fear. Her hands trembled as she picked it up and flipped it over to read the back. The message was short:

 _You are cordially invited to a family reunion. Henry is already on his way. Make sure you bring a plus one, please. The Saviour will do._

The plate in her other hand slipped to the floor and smashed.

She pulled out her phone, her hands shaking so much that she could barely hit the call button. She tried to call the cell that she'd bought Henry a few months ago, but it was dead. She closed up the café, apologising to a couple of regulars who had just walked in, and raced home. The apartment was empty; Henry should have been home by now.

She called Emma. She so rarely called Emma; mostly she just texted, demanding her presence at a particular time and place. There was a note of surprise in Emma's voice as she answered the phone and then puzzled agreement as Regina curtly ordered her to come to her apartment as soon as possible.

Regina buzzed Emma in to the building fifteen minutes later, leaving the front door unlocked. She was busy throwing things into a bag as she heard Emma open the door.

"Couldn't wait until tonight, huh? You know I'm going to get an RSI from all of the work you make me do with my hands?" Regina could hear the smile in Emma's voice, and the words were just another version of banter they sometimes engaged in. Normally, Regina would have responded with cutting sarcasm, and Emma would have laughed and then they'd be in her bed, or in the storeroom or in the car and hands would already be searching out skin. But there was no sardonic rejoinder forming on Regina's tongue today. All she could taste was desperation and fear.

Regina turned to face Emma, and she watched as the smug amusement drained from her face, quickly being replaced by concern.

"What's wrong, Regina?"

"It's Henry. Someone has kidnapped him and I need your help to get him back."

"What?" Emma crossed the room to Regina in a few strides and took both her hands in hers. "Have you called the cops?"

"I can't involve the police in this. Please, Emma. I need your help." Regina hated the pleading note that entered her voice, hated the way she was steadily losing her desperate grip on her emotions. She needed to be strong for Henry, but she wasn't too proud to beg for help. "Please. I'll pay however much you ask. Whatever it takes."

Emma shook her head. "Regina, you can't ask me to do that. And this isn't about money. I'm a bail bondsperson; when I chase people down, I'm only risking my own safety. This is different; your kid is involved, and I couldn't forgive myself if he was hurt. You need to involve people who are trained to deal with these situations."

Regina had to get Emma to Storybrooke somehow; Gold was behind this, and she knew he wouldn't settle for anything less. She desperately needed whatever leverage Emma's presence would provide, no matter the consequences. She wracked her brains for a way to persuade Emma, but the only tool at her disposal was the truth, or part of it. A handful of stolen evenings couldn't possibly be enough to engender the kind of unconditional trust that Regina needed.

"Please, Emma. You're the only one who can help me. There is no one else I can turn to." She paused, choking on the words. Emma learning the truth had been a worry that niggled at her for so long, but she'd never imagined that she would be the one telling that secret. "Please. You _have_ to help me."

"Regina…"

She could see Emma's expression wavering slightly, but not enough. She had no choice, she had to do it. "Henry is the child you gave up for adoption."

"What?"

Regina had watched many people break apart, and had often taken pleasure in it, but she'd never seen someone crumble so completely as Emma did in that moment. And there was absolutely no pleasure in this.

"No. You're lying. You must be." Emma's hand shook as she brought it up to clutch at her forehead, and Regina could see the muscles in her jaw working. "How could you even know about that?"

 _He's your son._ Regina tested out those words in her head, but they felt wrong. They were words that would burn her mouth and her throat and everything that she was, like acid. They weren't true. But she needed Emma right now, needed her help if she was going to save Henry.

"He's your son." She felt sick as she said it; it felt like a betrayal of herself. "He's your son. And I'm asking you to do this for him, if you won't do it for me. I'm asking you to trust me when I say it can only be you and me and no police."

And then Emma looked at her as if she was a stranger, hurt and confusion mingling together. "Who are you? I thought…"

She didn't finish that thought. Instead, Regina watched as the hardness returned, although she suspected that Emma was as brittle as a cicada shell, that she could be crushed with the tiniest exercise of force.

"Tell me what you know." Emma's voice was flat, stripped of emotion.

* * *

They were in the car on the way to Storybrooke, and Emma still hadn't looked at her. Not really. Her eyes had been cold as she'd listened to Regina's heavily edited version of events, and she'd stared at her hands, the floor, at some distant point over Regina's shoulder. Anywhere but at her. Regina felt the absence acutely; she had grown so accustomed to Emma's eyes on her like a caress. Emma hadn't spoken, either, beyond directed questions aimed at eliciting only the important information about why Regina thought Henry had been taken and where.

"How long have you known?"

Emma's voice after such a long silence startled Regina. She kept her focus on the road ahead, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see Emma's hands in her lap rhythmically clenching and unclenching. "Since that third time you came into the café."

"So, before? You knew this whole time? You knew, and you invited me into your bed, you fucked me, you let me sleep under the same roof as him, not knowing. How could you?"

Regina swallowed the lump in her throat and gripped the steering wheel tighter. She didn't know how to answer that. Guilt was such an unfamiliar emotion, but she instinctively knew that that was the source of the warm, uncomfortable sensation she was feeling right now, the almost painful pricking of sweat in her armpits and her scalp, the dryness of her mouth, the leaden heaviness she suddenly felt in her entire body. It shouldn't have mattered to her that she'd caused Emma this pain, but it did. She couldn't find the words she needed and even if she could, she would have struggled to get them out.

"So why did you fuck me? Was this all part of some sort of twisted game? Were you laughing at me the whole time?" The rage that had been simmering quietly under the surface for the last few hours seemed to have come to a boil, and Emma's voice grew more and more strident with every question, every accusation.

Regina felt each of Emma's words as a physical blow. Her hands were like a vice around the steering wheel now, pain radiating into her knuckles, as she absorbed each of Emma's hits. Eventually she found her voice. "It wasn't a joke or a game. You just showed up in my life, and it seemed too strange to be a coincidence. I had to know if you were a threat." Her voice cracked as she spoke. "I couldn't, I can't lose Henry."

"Jesus Christ, Regina. That is the most fucked up thing."

That was an accusation that she couldn't refute, and Regina's voice was hoarse as she responded. "I know." She whispered, half to herself, half to Emma, "It wasn't the only reason, though." It was not quite, but almost a confession.

There was silence between them again for a while, before Emma spoke again, her voice calmer now. "I wouldn't have tried to take him from you. I've wondered every day where he was, how he was doing, but I never would have gone looking for him."

Out of the corner of her eye, Regina could see Emma turning to look at her and she grit her teeth and focused resolutely on the road ahead.

"I gave him up so he could have his best chance and I can see that he's happy and that you love him. That's all I ever wanted for him. But I hope he never sees how cruel you can be."

* * *

 ** _Part V: Home sweet home_**

The first thing Regina noticed as they drove into town was the clock tower. The time read 11:33, and hands that had been motionless for almost 30 years, were inexplicably moving again. She drove straight to Gold's house and as they arrived, she slammed the brakes on, not caring that the car was halfway into the middle of the road.

She killed the engine and turned to Emma. "Wait for me in the car. I need to speak to someone."

"Are you walking into danger? You shouldn't go alone."

Regina grimaced. "Everything about this is dangerous, but he won't harm me. I need to talk to him alone, though."

"How long will it take?"

Regina shrugged. "I don't know. Ten minutes, maybe. Longer? I don't know."

Emma grasped her shoulder and Regina turned to face her. As she did, she was struck by the fierce light in Emma's eyes. "If you're not out of there in ten minutes, or if I see or hear anything weird, I'm coming in."

Regina nodded, before getting out of the car.

She walked up to the door and banged on it. After a moment, the door opened to reveal Gold. He smiled as she bunched her fist in his shirt, and she thought about all the ways she would love to see him suffer. She'd never enjoyed physical confrontation, but right now, her rage was such that she could almost have ripped his heart out with her bare, non-magical hands.

"Ah, Regina. So lovely to see you again."

"Where is my son?" Regina's teeth were gritted as she spoke, and with each word, she advanced into the house, pushing him backwards.

His smile took on a far darker character, but he made no move to oppose her physical incursion. "You're early, dearie. The party isn't until tomorrow."

Regina's skin crawled at the sound of Rumpelstiltskin's familiar diction wrapped in Gold's menacing snarl, rather than the usual lilt. He was looking at her in a way that suggested he knew exactly how she felt and was doing it deliberately to provoke her. She let go of his shirt, her skin suddenly crawling with disgust.

"You bastard. You were aware the whole time, weren't you? You knew when I adopted Henry who he was. You've been playing me."

"I'm certain that I don't know what you're talking about." The mannerisms she knew so well were creeping back in; there was less of Gold's cold-eyed, brutal hard-man, and more of Rumpelstiltskin's impish flamboyance. Gold's hands, which had always tended to stillness, were now held in a familiar pose, an obscene facsimile of a flamenco dancer. Of all those she had cursed, Rumpelstiltskin's transformation had been the strangest, the most dramatic. And looking at this strange hybrid of a man, who was neither one nor the other, was thoroughly disconcerting; she felt like she was seeing double.

"Tell me where he is."

He ignored her question. "You know, I'm very much looking forward to meeting the Saviour, although I've been waiting a little longer than I'd initially expected. You surprised me, dearie. I saw many futures, but I didn't expect you to choose the one where you left Storybrooke."

He grabbed her chin and studied her intently, his breath hitting her face as he stepped closer. "Go, get some sleep, _please_. Nothing will have changed by the time the morning comes. Come to my shop at nine and we can talk then."

Emma chose that moment to walk in, rushing over to stand beside her, glaring at Gold. As she came alongside Regina, Gold dropped his hands.

"Regina, are you okay?"

"Fine. Let's go." Regina cast one look back over her shoulder, but there was a force pushing her onwards. She shuddered as she took in the smile Gold was giving her.

"Night night, dearie. Be sure to introduce me to your _friend_ in the morning." The way he enunciated _friend_ made her want to scrub her skin raw.

They got back into the car and Emma turned from protective to accusatory once again. "So who is he? An ex? Someone else you're fucking? Someone else whose life you've treated like a game? What part of the puzzle am I not seeing here?"

Regina closed her eyes, willing herself to be calm. "It's quite the opposite. Gold has been using me as a piece in his own personal game for a very long time." She felt tired. So tired. She needed to sleep. "And I still don't know what the game is."

"Did you find anything out? Anything about where Henry is?"

"No. All I know is that Gold knows where he is, and that he won't tell me anything until he's ready. All I can do is play along with whatever game he's running and wait for him to slip up. For now, all we can do is get some sleep."

"Are you serious?" Emma was frantic. "There's got to be something else we can do. The longer we wait…" She didn't finish that statement and Regina was grateful for that, at least.

"Believe me, if I thought it would help, I'd tear this town apart with my bare hands right now. But we won't find anything, unless Gold wants us to." She yawned. "Right now, I just need to sleep."

She drove to 108 Mifflin, wondering what she would find. By the time they got there, she was almost in a trance. She fumbled with keys, eventually managing to unlock the door. Emma followed her inside, and stood there gaping as Regina turned the lights on.

"This is your house?"

"Yes."

"Why would someone with a house like this be making coffee in Boston?"

Regina rubbed her eyes. Her limbs felt heavy, and she struggled to focus on what Emma was saying. "Uh. It's a long story."

She traipsed up the stairs towards the bedroom and found linen that had been stored well enough not to be too dusty. She clumsily made the bed and fell into it. Her eyelids were drooping, and she could barely hold the urge to sleep at bay.

Emma stood awkwardly beside the bed, watching her. "I guess I'll just find a sofa or something."

"Stay." Those were Regina's last words before falling asleep, and she had no idea if Emma had heard her or not.

She woke some time later, and it was still dark. Emma was sitting cross legged next to her on the bed, on top of the covers, staring at her phone.

Emma must have noticed her stirring, because a moment later, she whispered, "Are you awake?"

"Yes. You couldn't sleep?"

"No. I don't know how you could."

"I don't know either." It was strange; she'd been sick with worry for Henry and furious at Gold, and then all of a sudden, all could think about was sleep. Sleep never came easy to her; it never had, because there were so many monsters waiting to ambush her the moment she closed her eyes. But tonight, it had felt like a compulsion that she couldn't ignore.

She propped herself up against the headboard. Suddenly sleep was the furthest thing from her mind. Her thoughts were a swirling mess of guilt and worry and anger and she wondered what she could have done differently, should have done differently, to avoid ending up in this terrible here and now. A here and now where the son she loved was lost to a danger she didn't want to contemplate. A here and now where a woman she cared for more than she should was starting to see her true face and recoiling away from the ugliness.

The silence sat heavy between them, and Emma was the first to break. "I know we never spoke about what we were…" She corrected herself. "What we _are_. But I need you to know that it was a huge thing for me to trust you and you've hurt me. And I'm not in the habit of letting myself get hurt anymore."

"I'm sorry." She really meant it. It had been a long time since she'd apologised to anyone as anything more than a gambit in a longer game, but she really did regret hurting Emma like this. She could barely make out Emma's features in the dark, so she couldn't tell what response her apology had garnered.

"I don't know if I'm ready to forgive you yet. I don't know if I'll ever be."

"I understand. For what it's worth, it was only partially about Henry, and it stopped being about him a long time ago."

"I don't know what to do with that information. I don't know what you _want_ me to do with it." She could hear the frustration in the rising pitch of Emma's voice.

"I don't know what I want you to do with it, either." There were things that she wanted that she had not dared to let herself hope for. Things that couldn't exist between an Evil Queen and the Saviour destined to defeat her. There was an irony in the fact that she was only willing to admit this to herself now, when it was all ruined. "But I think that even if we weren't tied together like this, it doesn't negate the attraction that was there. I wasn't pretending for any of it."

"Attraction." Emma laughed bitterly. "Was it just about sex for you?"

"It wasn't. It should have been, though. I should have cut you loose a long time ago."

Not that it would have done any good, probably. Gold would have found a way to line up all of his game pieces, and perhaps they'd both be here in Storybrooke, but as strangers instead. Maybe that would have been better. Maybe it would have hurt less. Maybe in that world, lined up on opposite sides of the battlefield, she would have won, or Emma would have won, instead of this mutually assured destruction they seemed to be hurtling towards. At this point, Regina could only assume that Gold's aim was to break the curse. That could be the only reason why he'd demanded the Saviour's presence. And if the curse was broken, well, then Emma would learn the truth about her, about the actions that meant that she'd grown up alone, without her family.

"You make it sound so cold, so calculated."

"That's how it should have gone, but I was weak. I wanted you too much. _I still do._ " The last part was said in a whisper, and she wasn't sure if Emma had heard her, until there was a cool hand cupping her cheek and lips that were slightly too dry softly brushing hers. It was sweet and slow and delicate, and far more than Regina deserved.

She desperately wanted to bury herself in Emma Swan, wanted the world to shrink down to nothing more than a room with a bed and the two of them intertwined. She'd spent a quarter of a century stood still in time, restless and bored, loathing the world around her, her place in it and herself. Now, with time moving once more, rushing onwards to a future she didn't want to contemplate, she wished she could stop time again. But time would march on, the sun would rise, and Emma Swan would find out just how unworthy Regina was.

She let herself enjoy the gentle press of Emma's lips just for a moment, before she pulled back. When she did, she saw that Emma's eyes were shining and wet, illuminated by the faint sliver of moonlight filtering through a gap in the curtains. And then she realised that there were matching tears on her own cheeks as well.

Her throat felt tight, and when she spoke, her voice came out rough and uneven. "I want this. I want _you_. But there are too many things you don't know about me and when you find them out you'll regret this, you'll regret _us_."

"Am I going to find out that you were the shooter on the grassy knoll? That you pour the milk in before the cereal? That you don't replace the toilet roll when it runs out?" Emma's voice was darkly mocking, and Regina felt herself tense in fury.

"It's not a joke," she snapped.

"I know. Just… How about you give me a chance to make up my own mind? I've seen that you can be cruel, but I've seen other things too."

There was a hand just above her knee, tracing soothing patterns, and Regina wanted desperately to relax into that touch. She trapped Emma's hand with her own, holding it for a moment before gently removing it from her leg. "You haven't seen anything. You have no idea what I'm capable of."

"All I'm saying is that I'm willing to take that chance. Regina, I'm angry at you for Henry, and I think I will be for a long while, but beyond that, you didn't owe me any truths about yourself. What we did, there were no strings attached. You never offered more, and I never asked, because I was afraid to."

In the distance, she could hear the beginnings of birdsong and she closed her eyes. The morning and the looming confrontation were drawing closer and closer. "I don't want to discuss this anymore. Right now, all that matters is that we get Henry back safe and sound. Let's try to get a couple of hours of sleep."

* * *

 ** _Part VI: Fate is a malevolent imp_**

Regina spotted Ashley walking down the street, as they approached Gold's shop. She frowned –Ashley was no longer pregnant – and wondered exactly how long time had been moving for.

"Ashley."

"Madam Mayor. I mean, Regina." The girl continued to trip over her words, and Regina was reminded of why she'd had so little patience for her.

"When did you have your child, Ashley?"

"Four months ago. Mayor Gold took her from me. I begged him not to, but he did anyway."

Regina found that she wasn't particularly surprised that Gold had stepped into the role she'd vacated. Nature abhorred a vacuum, and Gold had always been quick to seek power.

"I'm sorry, Ashley." She had very little interest in this girl, but she understood a little bit of the pain she was going through.

Emma had been staring, an expression of confusion inhabiting her face the whole time Regina had been talking to Ashley. As Ashley left, she turned to Regina. "Madam Mayor? What did she mean by that?"

Regina smiled tightly. "I was Mayor of this town for several years, until I left for Boston."

"And what kind of town is this where the Mayor can just take some woman's baby, or kidnap someone's child? Is there some sort of cult running this town?" There was a rising note of horror in Emma's voice, and all Regina could think was that it had begun.

She met Emma's eyes. "Storybrooke isn't like other places. There are things that you might see or hear while we're here that may seem strange or impossible, but they probably won't be. I don't know how to prepare you for this, but trust your instincts. They'll probably be right. And don't underestimate Gold. He's far more dangerous than he looks."

* * *

They walked into the shop, and Gold greeted them with a smile. In the light of day, Regina noticed that his eyes had taken on more of a reptilian cast. "Ah, welcome. I'm so pleased you could make it."

Regina clenched her fists at her sides and snarled at Gold. "How about we skip this and get to the part where you give me back my son?"

"Now, now Regina, there's always time for pleasantries. I think some introductions are in order before we start talking business. Would you care to introduce me to your friend?"

"Fine. This is Emma Swan, Henry's biological mother. Emma, this is Mr Gold, the slimiest, most malevolent creature you could ever have the misfortune to meet."

"Play nice, dearie. You're not the one with the power in this situation." He turned to Emma. "It's very nice to finally meet the Saviour, in the flesh. I've been waiting for this moment for longer than you could imagine."

Emma had remained silent through this exchange, but Regina could see the tension building in her stance. Suddenly, she snapped. Emma started randomly grabbing objects from the shelves, throwing them to the ground.

"Tell. Us. Where. Henry. Is." Each word was punctuated with the sound of another object hitting the floor, the final one a glass orb that shattered at Gold's feet.

Gold narrowed his eyes, his mouth curling into a sneer. "Read the sign, dearie. You break it, you buy it."

Regina threw out a hand meant to calm Emma, but she was too late; Emma was already surging forwards towards Gold.

"Listen buddy, I don't know what sort of fucked-up cult you're running here, and I don't know why you're calling me names, but stealing children is not okay. I don't care if you want to worship dragons or aliens or eat nothing but air, but you don't mess with kids." Emma twisted her hands in his shirt and shoved him against the counter. "You don't mess with _my_ kid."

Gold smiled. "You have your father's bravado, and just about as much finesse as him too."

Emma punched him. Regina could see the confusion and the distress milling in Emma's expression, and she moved to pull Emma away. As she laid her hands on Emma's shoulders, she felt her go slack, her hands dropping to her sides. Gold fell back against the counter, wiping blood from his lip, and Regina could see his eyes glittering malevolently.

Emma turned to her. "What the hell is he talking about?"

Regina couldn't answer that. She took Emma's hand in her own for a moment, soothing her, distracting her. "Don't let him antagonise you. Remember, we're here to save Henry."

Emma was still bristling, but she nodded and turned to stand beside Regina, their arms just barely brushing. Gold had picked himself back up and was watching them.

Regina willed herself to calmness as she spoke. Showing distress would just feed into Gold's enjoyment. She just wanted this to be over, and have Henry safe and in her arms. "Now that that's out of the way, how about we get to the reason we're here. You obviously want something from us, so stop playing games and tell me how I get my son back."

"Very well. I need you to procure an object for me: an egg. An old, old friend of yours has been keeping it safe for me and the time has come for it to be retrieved. Bring it to me and I will return your son. Do we have a deal?"

"Deal," she ground out through clenched teeth.

"Wonderful." Gold reached behind the counter, pulled out a sword and handed it to Emma.

Emma looked at it sceptically. "Seriously? What's this?"

"It's a sword, dearie. You stab things with the pointy end."

"And why would I need a sword?"

"Well, Regina's dear old friend just might be a little tetchy after spending so long underground. Perhaps she'll tell you that story later."

Regina was certain that the confrontation with Maleficent would not be pleasant, but she was tired of waiting, tired of messing around. She wanted her son back. To Emma she said, "Let's go." As they moved to leave, she turned back to Gold for a moment. "If you hurt Henry, or if you renege on this deal, or find some way to twist it around, I swear that I will not rest until I see you dead."

* * *

They stepped out of the elevator and into the cavern beneath the library.

"Holy shit. What is that?" Emma's eyes were wide as she took in the scene before her.

Regina laughed grimly. "That, my dear, is a dragon. And she's not at all pleased to see me. I suggest that I distract her and you find a way to use that sword to kill her."

"I don't actually know how to use a sword. I'm more of a firearms kind of girl."

"Well then, I suggest you improvise. A gun won't kill a dragon."

Regina didn't wait for a response. She ran out into the main body of the cavern and waved her arms, shouting to get Maleficent's attention. "Hey! Maleficent! Long time no see. How have you been enjoying the ambiance down here?"

She had a moment's warning to dodge the dragon breath that Maleficent sent in her direction, ducking behind a boulder, the heat still managing to singe her clothing. She caught her breath for a second, and looked over at Emma. Regina swore as she realised that Emma was standing out in the open, still gaping at the dragon. Regina came out from behind the boulder, drawing Maleficent's attention again.

"Emma! You need to take cover and pick your moment."

Regina continued to work her way around the cavern, taunting Maleficent. "Made friends with any earthworms down here?"

She chanced a look over at Emma again, just in time to see Maleficent knock her over with a swing of her tail. The sword went skittering away, plunging into the chasm at the heart of the cavern. Emma was lying on the ground, dazed, and Regina ran towards her. Maleficent had turned to focus on Emma and was bearing down on her, when Emma pulled out her gun and started shooting from her position on the ground. The dragon broke off her approach, retreating to the other side of the cavern.

Emma's eyes were wide and she was breathing heavily. "Come on, we need to take cover. That won't stop her for long." Regina laid a hand on Emma's arm and she gasped as she felt the magic surge between them. It felt like one of her senses had been restored after a long period of enforced blindness or deafness and she tried not to get lost in the wonder of it all. She examined the power; it wasn't much, but maybe it would be enough.

Regina clasped Emma's hand firmly and focused. She could feel a faint magical signature pulsating somewhere inside the dragon. That must be what Gold was after. She reached out her free hand, closing her eyes and focusing on pulling the object towards her. _There._ It was done.

Emma looked at her, a mix of awe and fear in her eyes. "What just happened?"

"No time to chat. Let's get out of here." Regina pulled Emma to her feet and they ran towards the elevator. Emma stumbled slightly as they ran and Regina felt a moment of concern, but didn't have time to dwell on it. They made it to the elevator just in time to avoid the stream of dragon breath headed in their direction.

They made their way back to Gold's shop and Regina noticed that Emma was limping more heavily than before. "Are you okay?"

Emma winced. "Fine. Let's just do this."

They arrived at the store and found Gold waiting for them.

"I've got the egg, now give me back my son. That was the deal." Regina snarled.

"And give him back I shall, once you hand over the egg."

Regina was distracted by the sound of a crash. Emma had slumped to the floor beside her, knocking several items off one of the shelves. Regina knelt down and examined her; she was unconscious. Regina touched her cheek; she was cool and clammy and her breathing was shallow.

She turned back to Gold. "What the hell did you do to her?"

"I didn't do anything to her. She should have been more careful about what she touched. Now, the egg. Give it to me."

"Not until you tell me what's wrong with her."

"She released a poison from one of those artefacts she broke. It's slowly working to paralyse her. Within a few hours she'll be dead."

"Can she be cured?"

"Give me the egg, _please_."

Regina suddenly found herself walking towards Gold, proffering the egg. She tried to resist, but she felt the same strange compulsion she had last night.

"What did you do to me?"

He grinned malevolently. "Did you forget that _please_ is a magic word? Surely your mother taught you that."

She closed her eyes. She'd forgotten the bargain she'd made in that moment of desperation.

"Now, dearie, shall we go see your son?"

He touched something behind the counter, and suddenly a door was revealed where there hadn't been one before.

"Ladies first."

She rushed into the room and stopped dead as she saw Henry laid out on the floor, unmoving, just as unconscious as Emma.

She turned to where Rumple was standing in the doorway. "You son of bitch. Wake him up."

"I don't think so, dearie. The deal was simply that I return your son to you. He's alive, unharmed, but…" He paused and pulled a small box out of his pocket. "He's in stasis. You remember what this is, do you not?" He threw her the box. "You'll need magic to solve this puzzle box. Not much, but more magic than you can summon right now in this world."

"What do you want?" She'd made bargains with him before and each time she swore that she wouldn't deal with him again. Somehow though, he just kept drawing her back.

"It's quite simple, dearie. I want you to break the curse. Break the curse and I'll make sure you have enough magic to wake your son and cure your charming little girlfriend too. If you don't, she dies and he sleeps forever."

After Gold left, she crouched next to Henry, staring at his face, innocent and beautiful in repose. She stroked hair that had grown a little too long back from his forehead, making a mental reminder to take him for a haircut. Her vision grew blurry as tears welled up and soon she was weeping uncontrollably over his sleeping form. And Emma, Emma was lying in the next room, her grip on life quickly slipping away. Regina stood up, suddenly feeling every bit as old as she actually was, her joints creaking in protest at being still too long. She walked over to where Emma was lying, still in the position in which she'd fallen. Regina bent down, gripping her beneath her armpits and dragged her across the floor towards the space next to Henry. Emma was heavier than she expected, the dead weight of her making Regina's joints and muscles scream in protest, but she ignored the pain until she had Emma lying next to Henry. She collapsed to the floor, exhaustion and grief overtaking her, sitting between the son she loved with all her heart, and the woman she could have loved but hadn't allowed herself to, both of them still and cool as stone.

It was easy, in the end. Easy to let go. Magic was will and emotion, and she realised that she had reached a point where she had neither the will nor the desire to sustain the curse any longer. It had brought her Henry, it had brought her Emma, and she couldn't regret that, but keeping the curse alive would also steal those two away. She held both Emma and Henry's hands, wincing at how cold, how lifeless they felt. She closed her eyes and found the place where all the threads of the curse were entwined, deep within her magic, and willed them to unravel. There was a wave of light and power sweeping outwards, like the shockwave from a detonation, and it was done.

She reached for her magic again, but it was still just a trickle, not enough to measurably impact on anything. Gold – Rumpelstiltskin, now – had not fulfilled his end of the bargain and she silently vowed to find him and destroy him. But for now, she would wait. She knew she would be found soon; the residents of Storybrooke would not take long to regain their memories. And when they found her, well… But she wouldn't leave Henry and Emma. She wouldn't leave until she was dragged away, and even then she'd fight to stay with them as long as she could.

And then, she felt it, like a current surging through her, blood and skin and muscle and nerves set to humming. Her magic was back. She closed her eyes and wished and wished and wished with all that she was.

There was the faintest pressure against her hand, an almost imperceptible tensing of muscles, and she cried out with relief as she felt Henry begin to stir.

"Henry." His eyes opened and she felt a smile creeping across her face.

"Mom?"

She leaned over him and peppered his face with kisses. He started to squirm and she pulled back, grinning at him.

"I love you so much. I was so frightened."

He eased himself into a sitting position. "I'm okay, Mom. But is that Emma? Is she hurt?"

"Yes."

"Is she going to be okay?"

"I don't know." He nestled into her and she wrapped her arms around him. She almost felt content now that he was safe. Almost. But Emma was lying there, still unconscious. The magic should have worked, but it hadn't. Regina buried her head in Henry's shoulder and willed herself not to think about the possibility that Emma Swan might die, even as Henry lived. She didn't know how long they stayed there like that, but just as she'd given up all hope, she heard Emma whisper her name.

"Regina?"

Turning around, she released Henry, and her breath caught as she saw Emma struggling to sit up.

"Did we win?"

"For now." It was a lie. There was no winning for her.

Emma frowned. "What aren't you telling me?"

Regina could hear the sound of a crowd approaching. There were only moments left. She yanked Henry into a tight hug.

"I love you, Henry. Never doubt that."

She released him and then she turned to Emma. "Please take care of him if I can't. I trust you to give him his best chance." She pressed her lips to Emma's, pulling away as she heard footsteps sounding in the doorway. She looked up to see Charming and Snow glaring at her, fury in their eyes, and the crowd assembling behind them.

"Regina, you'll pay for your crimes." The steel, the spirit that had been missing from Mary Margaret was back. The twee clothes and the short hair were still there, but there was a subtle shift in the way she held herself and Regina could see the bandit, the princess, her enemy superimposed over the mousy schoolteacher.

She thought about sending herself away. She was drained, but she would have had just enough magic to send herself to the town line. She could have stepped over it and left Storybrooke behind her forever. But she would have been leaving Emma and Henry behind and every moment with them was precious, even if they'd soon look at her with different eyes. She chose to stay.


End file.
